You Hold Me Without Touch
by Maximista
Summary: Edward/Rosalie. "He tries to hear her, understand her, but she's careful and she doesn't falter." -Captured pieces of a love affair through a series of drabbles and one-shots. AU. Pre-Twilight and on. Includes Twilight-25 entries.
1. it's a mystery always a mystery

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt: Stagnant  
Pen name: Maximista  
Pairing: Edward/Rosalie; Edward/Bella  
Rating: T

* * *

**it's a mystery, always a mystery**

**

* * *

**

Every night he climbs into a bedroom, gracefully, silently.

He watches her – watches over her.

When she shivers, he readjusts her blanket; a silent guardian. It's gratifying for him – the feeling of being able to take care of someone.

But he's always gone before the first eye flutter.

"Have a good time tonight?" _Did the child sniffle differently?_

It's after dawn and he's taken aback by her sudden appearance. She'd been avoiding him since he'd made it a point to be somewhere else, with someone else – to watch over the chief of police's daughter.

He tries to hear her, understand her, but she's careful and she doesn't falter.

He's immediately bombarded with thoughts of cashmere and silk and it's _vanity vanity vanity _being chanted at him instead – a recitation of the same song, sung in a different tune.

It infuriates him, frustrates him – she knows this and uses it to her advantage.

His eyes roll of their own accord. "Really, Rose?"

She shrugs and flips her golden hair, a sharp contrast to the brown he's become familiar with.

_Stay out, then._

She turns to leave and he's tempted to stop her and turn her back around but instead, he watches as she walks away.

---

He still climbs into a bedroom every night, staying long after the first eye flutter.

He protects her and she lets him. It's new to him, different – he doesn't think he'll ever become accustomed to having to remind her to breathe.

Her mind is a mystery to him but he's been through that before. Warm flushes, fragile skin and brown hair aren't the only things Edward Cullen's ever known.

Differences. But the similarity – it remains.

* * *

**ETA: If you've read this before, I've changed it from 'complete' to 'in progress' because I decided to stock-pile all the vamp!Roseward stuff here so that it's all in one place. **

**This isn't a multi-chapter story. ****So as not to confuse you, it's not entirely chronological either. ****These will be short pieces that can be considered standalone but also collectively give the impression that Rosalie and Edward had this huge torrid love affair the two years they had together before Emmett was changed, but they kept it a secret...and it was glorious.  
**

**The majority of this won't be happy. I have every intention of leaving you with this awful sad feeling for them. At least, that is my goal :) There's my warning. **

**Are you ready?  
**


	2. we converse best in things unspoken

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt: Sky  
Pen name: Maximista  
Pairing: Rosalie/Edward  
Rating: R?

* * *

**we converse best in things unspoken  
**

* * *

Golden wisps escape from beneath the magenta scarf, the intricate patterning flowing over and around her head, below her chin – to where the silken cloth is tied with a delicate knot. Its sole intent was to hold her hair prisoner but the loose tendrils that whip across her face can hardly be considered captives.

Her laughter, a melody that falls freely from her lips, is swallowed by the wind the moment it's released. The road ahead is seemingly endless. There's no one around, not for miles. She presses down on the pedal and lifts both hands from the steering wheel, holding them, extending them, high above her head and into the open sky. A squeal of delight protrudes from her as the wind rushes against her.

The car begins to sway out of line but it moves by only a fraction of an inch before a steady hand that is not her own is on the steering wheel, guiding it back along its intended path.

We may be indestructible but this car is not.

The words are uttered in disdain but they are laced with amusement and she can't help but pout a little because he's always trying to be the voice of reason.

He flicks her bottom lip with the index finger of his free hand and calls her childish but the slight upward tilt on one side of his mouth tells her that he's teasing.

She barely cares though and chooses instead to revel in this moment of unguarded bliss. She had always been placed in the center of attention, had always been told what to do. Her former life was a carefully laid out map that no one bothered to consult her on.

It was simply just _expected_.

But gone are the tea parties and the social appearances and the suffocating feeling she'd learned to ignore. And even though her heart no longer beats and the breaths she takes are _by option only_, she doesn't think she's ever felt this _alive_.

They drive like that for another few miles, her eyes closed against the beating wind, her hands coming down eventually to rest at her sides while he handles the car with ease.

She tries not to think about how she burned for three days, wondering, amidst all the pain, what she'd done to deserve such hell; tries not to think about how she insisted she could survive without drinking blood and how she only lasted 18 hours of feeling ravenous with hunger before she conceded. Maybe she'd got it right the first time and this _is_ a variation of hell where she's forced to stay in a place that treated her unkindly, for all eternity. She tries not to think at all but her mind still wanders of its own volition to a quiet night pierced with raucous laughter.

He's already giving her a look before she opens her eyes because of what he's _heard_. She returns it with one of her own. It's one that he will become very familiar with in the following years, one that tells him _you have no right to be in there_ before everything is closed off and he's left only with inane thoughts at the surface because those are the ones he hates most.

He can't help but wonder what compelled him to get into the car with her when she had run out of the house yelling that she _just needs to get away_. But that compulsion is also something he has yet to become familiar with, something that he'll never be able to understand. He doesn't say anything and she looks away, another moment fading to gray.

She takes back control over the steering wheel and he leans back into his seat. Words between them are spread far and few as they continue on with their drive, no clear destination in sight. Both of them stare straight ahead to where the road meets the sky.

It's too soon to tell where they're headed.


	3. hate is a four lettered word

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt: Mirror  
Pen name: Maximista  
Pairing: Edward/Rosalie  
Rating: T

* * *

**hate is a four lettered word**

* * *

Haughty. Conceited. Fickle.

Those are just some of the words Edward uses to describe Rosalie.

She tells him that perhaps he should familiarize himself with his own reflection the next time he's so quick to accuse her of those vices.

He tells her that it's been a near impossibility to come close to a mirror since she's moved in; perhaps she should find a hobby – one that doesn't involve admiring her own face.

They hardly speak to one another apart from exchanging insults. Their words are always carefully chosen daggers: thrown with precision and accuracy, intent with making it hurt.


	4. jealousy

The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt: Jealousy  
Pen name: Maximista  
Pairing: Rosalie/Edward  
Rating: PG

* * *

**jealousy.  
**

* * *

They think you sit at the piano for hours on end because it soothes you when you're agitated.

You don't disagree but you don't attempt to elaborate on these thoughts either.

What they don't know is that when your fingers attack the ebony and ivory, when you opt for Shostakovich over Chopin, agitation isn't your only opponent.

You're fighting to keep your memories at bay – memories that have haunted you, memories that have tormented you, mocked you for holding on to something that you never really had, something that you won't _ever_ have.

And when Rosalie's rich laughter echoes across the hall, caressing your ears, clashing against the stiff staccatos of your frenzied piano playing, you can't help but feel grateful that you're the mind-reader in this makeshift family.

Because it's moments like these when the most plaguing memories begin to surface and invade every inch of your mind. Memories of the countless times you witnessed Emmett spinning Rosalie around and around, which had caused her to laugh _just like that_.

You pretended not to look at them then, just as you pretend now that she is nothing more to you than a thorn in your side. And you ignore that harrowing feeling that has overcome you, choosing instead to focus on your fingers and the keys.

But that feeling stays in the pit of your stomach because no amount of denial can change the fact that it used to be your hand she held onto tightly, it used to be your arms that spun her around _just like_ _that_, and it used to be your eyes reflected in hers every time she came back around from the turn.


End file.
